Magical Realism in the Tales of Nikolai Gogol James D. Hardy, Jr. Leonard Stanton Louisiana State University There is a story about St. Serafim of Sarov (1759-1833). One day, four sisters from the Diveyevo Convent saw him across a field of ripe, brown grain. The sisters were on a road through the field, and their feet were on the ground. But as Serafim approached, they suddenly realized that the saint was “walking two foot above the ground, not even touching the grass.” Well attested by four nuns of unimpeachable character and faith, the event was duly recorded in the annals of St. Serafim and the convent; the truth it conveys is therefore beyond doubt. But walking above the grass, even by a saint of such holiness that the Tsar and Auto- crat of All the Russias sought him out as a confidant and spiritual father, is not encountered every day, and, it might even be suggested, cannot occur at all.1 This incident of faith illustrates both the nature of magical realism generally – the realistic and quotidian consequences of an impossible action – and the two varieties of magical realism employed in the tales of Nikolai Gogol. The first involves the direct and physical intervention of the divine or the demonic in an otherwise unexceptional flow of events. The second characteristic of Gogol’s magical realism implies the unex- pected violation of the laws of nature without a divine or demonic expla- nation. Gogol treated the divine, the demonic, or the supernatural event as entirely real, in a context no less Aristotelian than Platonic. For Gogol, Magical Realism in the Tales of Nikolai Gogol 127 who was deeply religious (but not clerical) in his habits of thought and outlook, the overlapping of the ordinary with the supernatural and magi- cal was a simply a fact of Russian life. It was neither rare nor remarkable. For Gogol, the (usually) demonic intervention into ordinary reality followed distinct patterns based on the location of the tale. Those set in the vast Russian countryside treated the Devil as a menacing though still ordinary part of life, but in that rural setting the Devil still had a playful as well as horrific quality. He could be bargained with and occasionally bested, and, while the Devil was dangerous, the blows he struck were rarely altogether fatal. Furthermore, the Devil could be seen; his dis- guises were rarely sufficient to fool the peasants and Cossacks who were always on the alert for him. In St. Petersburg, the Devil was an invisible and brooding presence who aimed to seduce souls to evil and often suc- ceeded. In “the northern capital of our spacious empire,” the Devil had a fearful psychological edge to him; there was no playfulness about him, he could not be bested, and your soul was at stake. In “The Fair at Sorochintsy,” the opening tale in the first volume of Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka (1831), it is no surprise that the Devil, like the Cossacks and gypsies, has come to the fair. He is seen by a reliable witness, a drunken old woman (who better to be on the lookout for the Devil dressed in a red jacket and “in the shape of a pig”?).2 The Devil steals the moon in “Christmas Eve,” a tale in the second volume of Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka (1832), but is captured by the hero, who uses him as transportation to St. Petersburg to obtain the Czarina’s slippers for his sweetheart. In the last tale in the second Dikanka volume, “A Bewitched Place,” the Devil inhabits a plot of ground where nothing would grow, and a respectable Christian grandfather could never finish his dance. In “St. John’s Eve,” in the first Dikanka volume, the Devil appears in human form as Basavriuk, to ruin the lives of two lovers. The Devil is “an enemy of the Church of Christ and of the human race,” but he is also familiar; with care and grace, he can be avoided (36). St. Petersburg was a different place. Here the Devil hid, occasionally to be spotted by a policeman, as in a terrifying encounter in “The Over- coat” (1842). Most terrible of all, the Devil inhabited a painting of a man in an Asiatic robe, a man who came alive filled with evil, as if in a 128 James D. Hardy & Leonard Stanton dream, but it was no dream. “The Portrait” (1835, 1842) depicted the perdition of a soul, with substantial collateral damage to art, which to Gogol was a sacred thing. In St. Petersburg, more than elsewhere in the Russian world, “the devil himself lights the street lamps to show every- thing in false colors” (452). Metonymy and a comic touch could alone indicate the seriousness and finality of the Devil in St. Petersburg. I An echo of this seriousness can be seen in the comic masterpiece “The Nose” (1836, 1842), where magical realism takes the form of an abrupt abrogation of natural law, for no discernible reason and to no clear purpose. The disruption of the natural order happens, and then the natural order is restored as if nothing had happened. There is no expla- nation for all of this, of course, and there could be no explanation, but at the same time no one could doubt the veracity of the reportage, even if nothing in “The Nose” could be considered as useful “for the benefit of youth,” though such unusual occurrences as a break in the natural order ought to be of benefit to someone, since an author writes to benefit his nation, and yet … “The Nose,” with its comic treatment of the serious- ness of life in St. Petersburg, is a remarkable tale about the ordinary. In “The Nose,” Gogol inverts the typical dynamic of modern magi- cal realism. In magical realism, a supernatural or inexplicable event gives rise to a series of realistic consequences; but the realistic detail of life in St. Petersburg could be satisfactorily explained only by reference to fan- tastic and sur-real stories. If canonical modern magical realism expects the fantastic to precede and give rise to the real, in Gogol the real gives rise to the fantastic, the unnatural explains the real and quotidian. While Gogol inverts the dynamic of magical realism, making the real the matrix of the fantastic, he does not diverge from the standard narra- tive structure. The inexplicable is an event that occurs suddenly and sur- prisingly, while realistic consequences play out as a narrative of funny, pathetic, and outré events. “The Nose,” therefore, exists on three inter- locking and circular levels of magical realism. At the base, the inherently surreal quality of daily life in St. Petersburg, so different from the daily life of all other Russian places, made the ordinary itself appear fantastic. Magical Realism in the Tales of Nikolai Gogol 129 As a later author put it: Petersburg, seat of the Czars and their officers, mistress of a hundred million human beings inhabiting a sixth of the globe, absorbed daily thousands and tens of thousands of people drawn from the remotest corners of the whole breadth of Russia, pilgrim to this European Mecca in search of justice, safety and pro tection, concessions and privileges; for all the affairs concerning the boundlessly great and rich empire of Russia were decided in Petersburg alone.3 In such a place nothing could be quite as it was elsewhere. Indeed, the intrinsic oddity of the ordinary in St. Petersburg somehow engendered the magical moment when all the laws of nature dissolved into a dew. And beyond that, on yet another level of reality, the appearance of the everyday can be regarded as not only the narrative consequence of the magical moment, but also its cause. “The Nose” begins with “an extraordinarily strange incident,” an in- cident so unusual as to draw official attention. A barber, IvanYakovlevich, who was, naturally, a drunken lout, cut open his breakfast loaf the morn- ing of the twenty-fifth of March, and: to his amazement saw something there that looked white. Ivan Yakovlevich probed at it carefully with his knife and felt it with his finger … He thrust in his fingers and pulled it out and – it was a nose! (475) Astonishment and dread nearly overcame IvanYakovlevich, while his wife, Praskovia Osipovna, reacted with horror, not so much at the errant nose as at the obvious culpability and incompetence of her husband. “‘Where have you cut that nose off, you monster?’ she cried wrathfully. ‘You scoun- drel, you drunkard, I’ll go to the police myself to report you!’” This was an idle threat, perhaps, displaying the expected and inevitable wifely distaste for her husband more than any desire to interact with the 130 James D. Hardy & Leonard Stanton always threatening authorities, but it was far from the most serious of IvanYakovlevich’s troubles. He sat there, stunned, “more dead than alive: he recognized that the nose belonged to none other than Kovaliov, the collegiate assessor whom he shaved everyWednesday and every Sunday.”4 His world had collapsed around him. All must assume, of course, that if Major Kovaliov’s nose was in the barber’s bread, it could not also be on the Major’s face. And the Major himself discovered the truth of this natural law against bilocation (sus- pended only for the benefit of saints) when he awoke and discovered that “to his great astonishment there was a completely flat space where his nose should have been” (477). Naturally this was disconcerting, even frightening, and certainly a matter for the police.